A Matter of Trust
by EKWTSM9
Summary: When Mike inadvertently loses Steve's trust, he must find a way to win it back.
1. Chapter 1

The loud knock on his front door brought Steve Keller's head up quickly. He dropped the newspaper to the table, glanced at his watch and scowled. 8:30. 'How the hell did he know I'm home?' he thought as he put the coffee cup down and stood.

The San Francisco Police Inspector was on the last day of a nine-day vacation. The first eight had been spent skiing in Tahoe. He wasn't supposed to be home till tonight but had decided to return a day early so he could use the time to clean his apartment, get groceries and slide back into a routine. So much for a leisurely day alone.

With a wry smile he pulled the door open, only to be taken aback by the smiling presence of Roy Devitt.

"Ah," the captain said pleasantly, "I thought that was your car. Home a day early?"

"Uh, yeah," Steve answered slowly, his smile having turned quickly to a frown.

"Good. I thought you might like to come with me. I'm picking Mike up in a half hour," Devitt continued as he brushed past Steve into the apartment.

"Picking Mike up…?" Steve echoed as he turned his head to follow Devitt's entrance, absent-mindedly shutting the door behind him.

Devitt pivoted to face the younger man. "Yeah, at Franklin. They're letting him…out…" Devitt's voice trailed off and his smile disappeared at Steve's narrow-eyed stare. "Oh," he said quietly, almost to himself, "he didn't tell you, did he?"

"Tell me what?" Steve asked, equally quietly.

Devitt's guilty look brightened slightly. "He's fine. That's why they're letting him out…today." His voice trailed off again as he deflated and rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm gonna kill him," he muttered under his breath.

"Tell me what, Roy?" Steve repeated, this time with the hint of a threat.

Devitt exhaled noisily, glancing around quickly like a trapped animal. "Mike's been recovering from a…a stab wound," he said slowly, then added quickly, "but he's fine. He's a hundred percent. That's why they're sending him home."

The blood had drained from Steve's face but his expression remained neutral.

"Where was he stabbed?"

"In the stomach," Devitt answered a little reluctantly.

Steve swallowed hard, then cleared his throat. "When did this happen?" His voice retained its neutrality.

Devitt looked at the floor and shuffled uncomfortably. "Ah…Wednesday," he said softly, then tensed in anticipation of the response.

"Wednesday?" Steve repeated, a sharpness in his tone. "This is Sunday. And no one thought to call me?"

"Listen, Steve, he was fine. His life was never in danger and I saw him a couple of hours after it happened. He said he would get in touch with you and Jeannie, so I just left it at that." He paused, then added softly, "I guess he didn't…"

"No, he didn't," Steve said slowly, and there was no mistaking the anger in his voice.

Devitt shifted uncomfortably again. "Uhm, look, if we're gonna get to Franklin by 9…?"

Steve was already in motion. He grabbed his coat and car keys and disappeared quickly into the kitchen to shut off the coffee pot.

"We can all fit into the LTD - " Devitt began but was cut off.

"No, he's coming home here with me," Steve said with a finality that brooked no argument as he crossed to the door and put his shoes on. "You can go home from the hospital." Steve straightened up and faced his superior. "You told him you'd pick him up at 9 and you will. But he's coming home with me." He opened the door.

Devitt, realizing now was not the time or place to argue, gave an affirming nod as he crossed in front of Steve to exit the house. 'Oh crap,' he thought as he crossed to the green LTD, 'I wouldn't want to be in Mike's shoes right now.'

# # # # #

Mike Stone sat on the side of the hospital bed, dressed and ready to go, his overnight bag beside him. He ran his fingers over the bandage on the left side of his stomach and winced slightly, then shifted into a more comfortable position.

He glanced at his watch again and then at the door. Where was Devitt? There was still paperwork to sign and a wheelchair to procure. He wanted to get out of here.

There was a soft knock on the door. 'Finally,' he thought and yelled, "Come in" as he carefully slid off the bed.

The door was pushed open and Roy Devitt entered, wide-eyed and in a rush. "He's right behind me," he whispered quickly and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"What?" Mike asked, not sure he had heard correctly. Devitt nodded over his shoulder. Mike followed the movement and froze.

Steve Keller stood in the doorway. But there was no welcoming, relieved smile. If he was pleased to see his partner standing before him, fully dressed and seemingly perfectly fine, he didn't show it. 'Oh oh,' thought Mike, 'he's mad.'

"You can leave now, Roy," Steve said briskly, his eyes not leaving Mike's. "I'll handle everything from here." And with that, he turned and started back down the corridor.

Devitt exhaled loudly and headed back towards the door. "He doesn't need to tell me twice," he said sotto voce.

"Wait," ordered Mike sharply. The captain stopped and reluctantly turned to face the lieutenant. Mike spoke quickly in a loud whisper. "What the hell happened? He's not supposed to be home until tonight. And why the hell is he with you?"

Devitt bristled and shot back. "How was I supposed to know you chickened out and didn't tell him? I drive past his street on my way from home to here and I happened to see his car. I thought he might like to come with me, you know, to pick up his partner," he finished sarcastically.

"Great," whispered Mike, "today of all days, you become the good Samaritan."

"Look –" Devitt started, then shot a look at the door. Lowering his voice, he continued, "We can argue about this later. Right now I want to get out of here before he comes back." At the door he turned back briefly. "Good luck." And with that he was gone.

As the door slowly closed, Mike exhaled loudly and gingerly hoisted himself back up onto the bed, trying not to grimace. This was not the way he had hoped this day would go. Suddenly there was a huge fence he would have to mend.

Twenty minutes later, the door was opened by an orderly with a wheelchair, followed by Steve holding a fistful of papers and a paper bag.

"Lieutenant Stone," said the orderly with a grin, "you've been sprung!"

"Great," Mike said with a matching grin, successfully suppressing a wince as he slid off the bed once more. He was looking at his partner but Steve refused to meet his eyes, busy folding the papers and sliding then into his inside jacket pocket, then reaching for Mike's overnight bag.

Steve stayed behind the wheelchair as the trio left the room and made their way down to the front entrance via corridors and an elevator. Mike and the orderly talked basketball to fill the awkward silence.

As the orderly helped Mike out of the chair at the entrance, Steve ordered, "Wait here, I'll get the car," and dropped the bag at Mike's feet. Mike rolled his eyes and sighed. He had never seen his young partner this angry before – at least not at him. This was going to be a long day.

Eventually the Porsche turned into the entrance driveway and stopped in front of him. Mike began to stoop to pick up the bag but Steve was already out of the driver's side. "Leave it, I'll get it," he called, crossing to the passenger side, picking up the bag and opening the door in one quick motion.

Mike bent over to leverage himself into the low-slung car. Even moving slowly, he couldn't suppress a sudden pain-filled inhale and wince. As he sat, he closed his eyes, not in discomfort but self-annoyance, waiting for the rebuke.

When Steve didn't say anything, Mike opened his eyes. Seeing that, Steve straightened up and dropped the bag in Mike's lap, making sure it was far enough away from his stomach. He slammed the door.

Steve got in the driver's seat, closing the door and putting the key in the ignition simultaneously. Before he turned the key, he put both hands on the steering wheel and stared through the windshield. Quietly and deliberately he asked, "When were you going to tell me?"

Mike knew this was coming. He tried to make light of it with a wry half-smile. "Uh…today…?" he answered brightly, almost as a question.

Steve's expression betrayed nothing as he started the car and pulled away from the curb. Mike looked balefully out the side window. He knew he wasn't going to win this battle – it was best to follow his partner's lead right now until he figured out just how thin the ground was on which he was standing.

The drive was made in silence. After a few blocks, Mike figured out where they were heading so he wasn't surprised when the Porsche pulled to a stop in front of the Union Street apartment.

Steve was out and halfway around the car by the time Mike got the door open. The younger man took the overnight back from his grasp and put a hand under his right elbow to help him slowly out of the car.

Mike wasn't entirely successful in hiding his physical discomfort but once out, it didn't stop his companion from turning on a heel and sprinting up the steps, leaving him standing on the sidewalk.

Stairs were still a problem and it was a full minute before Mike was at the front door. Steve was on his way down from the second floor, a couple of pillows in hand. He tossed them onto the couch. "Sit down," he said.

Mike did as he was told, slowly taking off his jacket and putting it on the arm of the couch.

Steve crossed to the TV and turned it on. When it warmed up, he turned the knob until he found a basketball game. "The east coast game just started," he said, then disappeared into the kitchen. Mike kicked off his shoes, propped the pillows against one end of the couch and, with one hand over his wound, stretched out facing the TV.

A few minutes later, Steve re-emerged with a cup of coffee. He put it on the coffee table within Mike's easy reach. "I have to do a few things around here then go out for awhile. Do you need anything?" He was looking at the older man but his eyes still registered his anger.

"No no, I'm fine." Mike tried a small smile.

"You know where everything is if you need anything," Steve said, then once more disappeared into the kitchen.

Mike's long exhale could easily have been mistaken for a relieved 'whew'. He sipped the coffee, grateful for a decent cup after almost a week.

That was when he realized Steve must have talked to his doctor, who had told Mike that he was allowed a cup or two of coffee after he was released, but not to 'live on it' for a few days yet. There were a lot of things off his diet for the time being. And for the moment, getting back to full strength and back to work seemed to be an easier task than the fences he had to mend with his partner.

He knew the subject would be broached eventually. Best right now to let the young man work out his anger. That was the wisdom of years – knowing when to confront, when to walk away, and when just to let sleeping dogs lie for the time being.

He found it hard to concentrate on the game. He understood Steve's infuriation at not being informed, but then again Steve hadn't heard Mike's side of the decision. Hopefully soon he would get to explain himself but until the right opportunity presented itself, he would like the younger man take the lead.

Steve passed from the kitchen upstairs to the bedroom with nary a glance. About fifteen minutes later, he descended into the living room, grabbing his jacket and car keys.

"I'll be gone for awhile. There's more coffee in the kitchen if you want another cup." And without waiting for a response, he was out the door and gone.

# # # # #

Steve slammed the door of the Porsche, put his key into the ignition, and then just sat there, hands tight on the steering wheel, breathing hard. He exhaled loudly and let his head fall back against the headrest.

He knew why he was angry – that Mike had kept him in the dark – and he would make the older man pay for that. But it had been extremely hard not to give in to the other emotions he'd been feeling these past few hours: at first the fear and then the overwhelming relief.

He needed to get some distance between them right now to sort out how he really felt and how best to relay to his friend and mentor just how hurt he was feeling.

He almost felt guilty with the way he had been treating Mike since the hospital. 'Almost...", he smiled as he started the car and pulled away from the curb.

# # # # #

Three hours later the Porsche slid to a stop alongside the curb. Steve was annoyed that his regular spot was occupied, so he parked a further down the block at the cul-de-sac. 'Great,' he thought, 'the one time I have more groceries than usual…'

He took two of the paper bags from the passenger seat and made his way to his front door, balancing the bags as he opened the unlocked door.

Mike was still on the couch but, to Steve's relief, was sound asleep. He crossed quietly to the kitchen, put the bags on the counter and left to get the rest. It took three trips to get everything out of the car, but he managed to do it quietly enough to not wake his houseguest.

Before disappearing into the kitchen, he retrieved a light blanket from the upstairs linen closet and gently placed it over the sleeping man.

# # # # #

Mike was slightly disoriented when he woke a couple of hours later, but as soon as he moved to sit up, a stab of pain in his belly brought him quickly back to reality.

One hand over the bandage, he shifted into a sitting position, remembering that he was in Steve's apartment. He could hear bustling in the kitchen, and the smell of baking chicken wafted over him. He got up carefully and walked to the kitchen doorway.

Steve, a dishtowel tucked into the top of his pants, glanced up from the stove. "Good, you're awake. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. You better wash up," he said, his attention returning to the stove.

Mike took in the kitchen table, laid out with two settings. With a small smile but without a word, he turned and made his way slowly upstairs to the bathroom.

By the time he made it back down, Steve was finishing serving up baked chicken, mashed potatoes and steamed carrots. There was a beer in front of one place setting, a glass of milk at the other. He sat in front of the milk.

He looked from the plate to the chef. "This looks delicious," he said with a smile. He was going to add, 'especially after hospital food', but decided against it for two reasons – it could be misinterpreted as a comment on Steve's culinary skills; and bringing up the subject of the hospital right now might be a bad move.

Steve said nothing as he tossed the dishtowel onto the counter and took his seat.

Mike reached for the salt, then remembered it wasn't on his diet right now, so picked up the glass of milk instead.

They ate in silence. Steve's eyes never left his plate, while Mike kept staring at the top of the younger man's head. They had to start talking again soon.

Finally Steve put down his knife and fork and looked up, meeting the older man's eyes. There was a long silence before Steve finally said, "So, what happened?"

Mike visibly relaxed and sat back. This was the opportunity he'd been waiting for. "Bill and I caught a case last Sunday night. Someone stabbed a hooker to death in the Tenderloin. It was pretty vicious. That first night there wasn't much we could do; none of the girls would talk to us.

"On Monday, we got a few of the girls talking. Believe me, we could've used your charms," he said with a grin but when Steve didn't respond, he cleared his throat and continued, "Most of them didn't know anything, but two of the girls remembered this nebbishy guy, mid-thirties, with the dead girl just before she disappeared.

"They 'knew him', if you know what I mean – they'd seen him before. They said he was a real milquetoast. They didn't think he could have done it – but how many times have we heard that before, right?"

Steve actually nodded in agreement, Mike was relieved to see.

"Anyway, one of them remembered that he got pulled in one night last year in a john sweep. So we brought the girls to Vice and had them go through the john books. And, lo and behold, they picked him out. We ran his name and it turns out he lives with his mother over on Russian Hill but, mind you, not in the ritzy part.

"Bill and I went over there on Wednesday morning to talk to him. We had nothing on him and from what the girls said, it was unlikely he was our suspect, but he could have seen someone.

"We didn't want to talk about all this in front of his mother, so we asked her to get us some coffee so we could speak to him alone. And I tell you, after the first thirty seconds, I knew he wasn't our guy. You know, the old instinct?"

Steve nodded again.

"But we asked him to come down to Headquarters with us to go through the john books to see if anyone looked familiar and he agreed right away."

Mike paused and took a deep breath. He realized that this was the first time he was telling anyone about what happened. It had been Bill who'd filed the report and talked to the investigators and IAB. He could feel his heart begin to pound and sweat break out on his palms. His stare turned inward.

"He got up and went to the hallway and called down to the kitchen to his mother. He told her he was going to Police Headquarters with us and he would be gone a couple of hours. Then he crossed to the closet and got his coat out.

"As Bill and I got up to leave, his mother came down the hallway into the living room…she walked straight up to me…I remember she was smiling…she raised her right hand and all I saw was a glint of metal… and she stuck a butcher knife right into my stomach…"

His voice had trailed off, the thousand-yard stare continuing, as he relived the moment over in his mind. Steve caught his breath and froze.

After several seconds, Mike continued, his voice quiet and the delivery measured. "I didn't feel anything at first, just a light punch…and the next thing I remember I'm lying flat on my back on the living room carpet with the handle of a butcher knife sticking out of my belly…and then the pain started… It was unbelievable…

"I vaguely remember Bill and her son wrestling her to the floor and Bill cuffing her. The son found a towel somewhere and knelt over me – Bill raced out the front door. I remember afterwards he told me he went to the car to call it in as he knew it would be faster.

"The doctor said what saved me was the knife being left in – if she or any of the others had pulled it out, I could have bled to death. Leaving it in, he said, I was never in any real danger." He smiled slightly and shook his head, as if awed by his own good fortune. He looked at his young partner.

"I really wasn't in any danger. Everything her son did, everything Bill did – I was never in jeopardy… I never lost consciousness… I remember both Bill and her son kneeling over me, the ambulance guys getting there, even the ride to the hospital.

"After that, I remember waking up with Bill, Roy and Rudy standing over me – now that's a sight," he said with a slight chuckle. "Three hours after I was stabbed, I was talking to them, and the doctor told me I could go home in a couple of days. They just wanted to keep me in for a bit in case I developed an infection – the wound being where it was, of course."

Mike finished with a shrug. When Steve didn't say anything, he ventured, "Look, I knew you needed the vacation. We'd had such a crazy stretch before that and I knew you needed a break. Hell, everybody did.

"I was okay. I was going to get a few days rest in a hospital – I figured I didn't need to disrupt your recreation for something that really wasn't all that bad. And hell, it was only Wednesday – you'd only had three days…" he trailed off, his tone almost a plea for understanding.

Into the lengthening silence, Mike took a deep loud breath and then continued. "Look, I know you're mad at me for not telling you –"

"You know it's more than just that, don't you?" Steve interrupted calmly, breaking his silence. Mike said nothing – if Steve was finally going to talk, the last thing he wanted to do was stop him. "It's a matter of trust, Michael." Steve felt passionately about this, obviously; he never used Mike's full name unless he was adamant about getting his point across and wanted his partner's full attention. "We have to trust each other. I have to know that you keep nothing from me in the same way that I keep nothing from you."

"I didn't lie to you," Mike said softly.

"I know you didn't. But you omitted – and how many times have you told me that an omission is as bad as a lie." He paused and took a deep breath. "I have to know, even when we aren't together, that you will be perfectly honest with me about anything and everything that concerns the two of us – just like I expect to tell you the same."

Steve stopped and took a deep breath. "We got lucky this time, that goes without saying. I am so grateful for that. And believe me, I appreciate you thinking of me and not wanting to interrupt my vacation.

"But you should have called me. Talking to you, with you yourself telling me that everything was okay, I may well have decided to stay in Tahoe. But that was _my_

decision, Mike – not yours.

"You fuss over me all the time, over the littlest thing, and I let you do it," Steve continued with a wry but warm smile. "It's one of the things I love about you."

Mike chuckled and dropped his embarrassed gaze.

"But it's a two-way street, my friend. I get to worry about you as much as you worry about me.

"I know you think this wasn't a big deal, that you were never in any real danger – but the fact that you didn't think it necessary to even tell me makes me wonder what else you've kept from me all these years."

Intentional or not, the words cut deep. Mike froze for a split second, looked down and nodded slowly. "You're right…I should have called you, I realize that now. I'm sorry." He looked up. "I don't know what else to say. I made a mistake and I didn't realize how much…" He couldn't finish the thought, so he just repeated, "I'm sorry…"

Steve, aware they were wading into deeper waters than either of them wanted to go at the moment, pushed his chair back from the table and reached for their plates. "I stopped by your house this afternoon and got some more of your things, seeing as you're going to be here for a few days. There's a suitcase upstairs in my bedroom." Once his more his tone brooked no rebuttal.

Mike tried to hide his heavy sigh, knowing that any further discussion of their present situation was over for the time being. "Look," he said in a placatory tone, "I can sleep on the couch. I had a great nap there this afternoon –"

"Not for several days you can't," Steve cut him off. "I've already changed the sheets and it's ready for you. The doctor said you still need to take it easy so why don't you go up and settle in." With that, he turned to the counter and put the plates down.

Summarily dismissed, or so it felt, Mike turned slowly and made his way upstairs. They hadn't made as much progress as he had hoped; he would wait for Steve to once more take the lead, no matter how long it took.

# # # # #

A little over an hour later, Steve came up the stairs. He glanced into the bedroom as he crossed to the bathroom. Mike, in pajamas and glasses on, was reading a hardback book in the light from the bedside table.

Seconds later, Steve entered the bedroom, drying his hands on a towel, a large heavy plastic bag filled with medical supplies under one arm. "I have to change the bandage."

Mike looked at him over the glasses. "Oh, right." He put the book down and took off the glasses, laying them both on the bed beside him. "Thanks for bringing my book."

"I saw it on your nightstand," Steve nodded, "but really, a murder mystery?" His tone was welcomingly light.

Mike chuckled. "Yeah, I know. It's a quick read and I like to think I'm faster at figuring out the murderer than the fictional detective." He flipped the covers off and started to undo his pajama top as Steve sat on the edge of the bed, put the towel over his shoulder and opened the plastic bag.

"Scootch down," Steve said, "you need to be flat."

Mike did as he was told. "Scootch? That's a medical term, is it?" He pulled open the pajama top and for the first time Steve saw the bandage. There was only a slight hiccup in his movement.

The dressing itself was quite small, about 2"x5", horizontal, and about an inch to the left of Mike's navel. The surgical tape made it appear larger. Steve carefully lifted one corner of the tape and, as he had been instructed at the hospital, gently lifted the tape and dressing off the wound, careful to make sure the dressing wasn't stuck to the incision. Luckily it wasn't, and the dressing lifted easily. He dropped it into the garbage can.

Mike noticed a slight tremor in Steve's hand as he reached for the gauze envelope and his eyes settled back on the wound. The incision was nearly four inches long, its clean edges held together by ten small, neat, evenly-spaced black silk sutures.

"How does it look?" Mike asked quietly, and Steve seemed to shake himself out of a slight trance.

"It looks good. I don't see any redness or swelling," Steve said as he opened the envelope and took out a clean square of gauze. He folded it in half, applied a thin layer of antibiotic from a tube and gently laid it overtop of the incision. "Put your hand on that," he instructed.

Mike put two fingers on the gauze to hold it in place while Steve cut the surgical tape. He placed the tape gently onto the gauze and pressed down lightly, then hesitated. "Could you do that?" Steve asked. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Sure." Mike smoothed the tape down, and continued doing so as two more pieces were applied. Finished, Steve began to pack up.

"Thanks," Mike offered as he started to lift himself back into a sitting position, trying not to grimace.

"You're welcome." Steve closed the plastic bag and stood. "You need anything?"

"Nope," Mike shook his head as he did up his pajama top. "I'm fine, thanks. Oh, and thanks for dinner."

"My pleasure. Look, I'm going into work tomorrow, so I'll see you sometime during the day. Stay in bed as much as possible."

Mike nodded. "I will."

"Good. Have a good night." Steve turned and went back into the bathroom. He emerged several minutes later and headed downstairs, without even a glance at the bedroom.

Mike had picked up his book and glasses and was trying to get back into the novel, but after reading the same paragraph about ten times, decided to give up. In the dark, he stared at the ceiling, trying to find a way out of this problem he had inadvertently created. Eventually he fell asleep.

# # # # #

Mike became slowly aware of his surroundings, realizing he had slept more soundly that he had anticipated. Being out of the hospital certainly helped.

He could hear Steve's electric razor, realized his partner was in the adjoining bathroom, and decided to let the young man go about his business undisturbed.

About five minutes later, Steve emerged from the bathroom and as he crossed to the stairs, glanced into the bedroom. He could see that Mike was still sound asleep. With a relieved smile, he went down the stairs, grabbed his coat and keys and left the house.

Mike heard the front door close and opened his eyes. He waited until he heard the Porsche start up and drive away before he threw back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He carefully got to his feet; everything felt pretty good, he was relieved to find.

He found his clothes and got dressed. In the living room, he rifled through the Yellow Pages until he found the number he needed and made a quick phone call. Five minutes later, he was out the door.

# # # # #

A little after six that evening, the gold Porsche turned onto Union and slid to a smooth stop at the curb. Steve smiled as he turned the car off and took his key from the ignition – he had his parking space back.

He took the steps to his front door two at a time; he was in a much better mood than he had been the past twenty-four hours. He had made up his mind to let Mike out of the doghouse – he'd made the older man suffer enough for his lapse of judgment and Steve knew his point had been made.

As he turned his key in the lock and opened the door, he knew something wasn't normal. As he pushed the door open, he froze. 'What the hell…?'


	2. Chapter 2

A Matter of Trust 2

The first thing he noticed was how dark it was in the apartment. The curtains were closed, and the living room light was dimmed. As his eyes quickly adjusted, he saw that the couch and coffee table had been pushed aside and his kitchen table was now the centrepiece of the living room, under the ceiling light. It was set, rather elegantly he noted, for one. A large white candle, in a glass flute, was lit and cast a warm glow.

The light in the kitchen was on, he noted, and his nose and ears were treated to appetizing smells and the smooth, relaxed trumpet stylings of Miles Davis's "Kind of Blue".

Steve Keller was still standing in the doorway, trying to sort all this out, when Mike Stone emerged from the kitchen. He was wearing a crisp white dress shirt, a black bow tie and what looked like tuxedo pants. He snagged a black jacket from the back of the chair at the table and put it on quickly, snapping the French cuffs into place.

With a broad grin, he approached the bewildered young man at the door. "Ah, Mister Keller, right on time. May I take your coat?" He held out his hands.

Steve unwittingly took a step backwards, face blank, brow furrowed in confusion. After a split second of indecision, he shrugged out of his jacket and handed it over.

Mike placed the coat over one arm, then gestured toward the couch. "Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Please, take a seat and I will get you an aperitif – we are offering a California Reisling tonight. As a hearty Bordeaux will be served with dinner, a nice light white is the preferred starter, if that meets with your approval?"

"Uh…sure," Steve said slowly as he crossed to the couch and sat, still obviously confused.

Mike gestured at the coffee table. "While you're waiting, we have assembled some reading material – today's Herald, Chronicle and the New York Times. I will be right back with your wine." He turned smartly and disappeared into the kitchen, taking the coat with him.

Steve heard the fridge door open and a drink being poured. He hadn't moved a muscle when Mike reappeared, a glass of white wine on a small serving tray and,

carefully leaning forward, offered him the glass with a "Sir."

Steve accepted the drink with a nod, brow still furrowed. He watched as Mike returned to the kitchen. Slowly he leaned back against the couch, trying desperately to figure out what was going on. A small smile appeared on his lips; he had no idea what Mike's game was but for now he decided to play along.

Ten minutes later, Steve was almost finished his Reisling and was deep into the Times op-ed page when Mike reappeared. There was a discreet throat-clearing to get his attention, then "Excuse me, Mr. Keller. Your dinner is about to be served, if you're like to take a moment to freshen up?"

With a bemused smile, Steve handed over his wineglass and got to his feet. He retreated upstairs to the bathroom and Mike disappeared once more into the kitchen.

As Steve took his seat at the table, Mike approached, plate in hand. Before setting it down, he announced, "Tonight's repast consists of pot roast marinated in red wine, with accompanying roasted potatoes and carrots, asparagus in a peppercorn vinaigrette, a Waldorf side salad and fresh, warm sourdough bread." He indicated the salad and bread, already on the table, with his free hand.

Mike set the plate down with a bow and added, "Please enjoy your meal." He returned once more into the kitchen and emerged seconds later with an open bottle of wine. He formally presented the bottle. "A 1967 Pomerol Bordeaux – an excellent year. May I?" he asked, gesturing to the red wine glass on the table.

Steve nodded. "Please."

Mike picked up the glass and poured a small amount, then presented the glass for tasting. Still smiling slightly, Steve took the glass, twirled it, sniffed, then took a sip. After the appropriate hesitation, he nodded approvingly.

"Very good, sir," said Mike, pouring a full glass before retreating to the kitchen.

With a quiet chuckle, Steve put the glass down and picked up his knife and fork.

With no small amount of trepidation, he took a bite of the roast. His eyebrows shot up; it was delicious. He was wiping his mouth with his napkin when Mike appeared once more at his side.

"Sir, I have a request. It seems there is a great deal of food left over, and I was wondering if the maitre d', the sommelier and the chef could join you for dinner. They actually won't take up much room; only one chair, actually…" he said with a slight smile and a shrug, indicating another chair a few feet away.

Steve looked up, his face expressionless. He inhaled deeply, then said firmly, "No, I don't think so."

The response was obviously so unexpected that Mike's couldn't stop his crestfallen look, and he actually took a half-step back. "Ah, very well, sir -" he began quietly.

"What I mean is," Steve cut him off, "that chair is reserved for my partner." His face softened. "If you can find him, please let him know that I would be honoured to have him as my dinner companion."

Mike seemed to deflate, and a hand shot to his mouth as he struggled to regain his composure. He cleared his throat and straightened up. "Of course, sir. I will endeavour to find him." He turned quickly and strode back to the kitchen.

A minute later, minus the suitcoat and tie, sleeves rolled up, with a full plate, cutlery and placemat in hand, Mike returned to the table. Putting everything down, he moved the chair over then made a second kitchen trip, returning with a wine glass and napkin. "This looks good," he said with a smile as he sat.

Steve had continued to eat, and now he slowly looked up, chuckling and shaking his head. He still had no idea what Mike had in mind with all this, but he was going to take his time finding out – this was too much fun.

Mike rearranged everything front of him and poured himself a glass of wine before tucking into the roast. "Umm-umm, if I do say so myself, this is pretty good," he said after the first bite. "So, how was your day?" he asked with pointed nonchalance.

Steve gave him a sideways look, still suspicious. "Didn't do too much, just caught up on some paperwork." He went on to explain that there were no new cases, it was very quiet and everyone was using the time to get files and reports up to date. "I did get a chance to talk to Roy and Bill, though."

They continued to eat, not making eye contact. "Oh," said Mike, "how're they doing?"

"Fine."

"That's good. What did Bill have to say?" Mike asked with feigned indifference.

Steve looked directly at him. "You can relax," he said. "He told me pretty well the same thing you did, about what happened."

"Good," said Mike, continuing to look at his plate.

Steve stared at his partner for a few seconds before continuing. "He did tell me one thing you didn't." He saw the hesitation as Mike reached for his wine glass.

"Oh, what was that?" he asked before taking a sip.

Steve took a deep breath and continued to study his friend's face as Mike deliberately concentrated on the contents of his plate. "He told me how terrified he was to see you lying on the floor, the butcher knife in your stomach up to the hilt. How he tried to stop the bleeding with a towel. How much blood there was and how they were trying to keep you from going into shock … how helpless he felt."

Mike's hands were shaking slightly but he continued to stare at the table, eating slowly.

"He was thinking about me, he said, how he wished I was there if you died…but also how glad he was that I wasn't, that I didn't have to go through what he was…" Steve's voice trailed off. He lowered his eyes and the silence lengthened. Neither of them was moving.

Into the stillness, Steve whispered, "I'm kind of glad I wasn't there…"

Mike nodded slowly. "Me too."

Eventually, Steve looked up, a wry, knowing smile touching his lips. "You sonofabitch," he said quietly. Never was an expletive uttered with as much affection. Mike looked up quickly, startled.

"That's what all this is about, isn't it? My favourite music, wine, food," Steve said, gesturing around the room. "You knew I'd talk to Bill today, didn't you?"

Mike had begun to smile a little. He shrugged. "Does a bear sh- ?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Steve cut him off with a small laugh. He shook his head ruefully. "You did all this just to prove to me that you know me better than I know myself, am I right?"

Mike shrugged again. "Maybe not better… But well enough to know that you have to learn to trust me about some things. I know how much you worry about the people you care for – almost as much as I do," he said with a chuckle, "but you have to realize that sometimes those people want to spare you from things that you have no control over."

Steve laughed quietly, shaking his head. "I don't know anyone who goes as far to prove a point as you do."

Mike grinned. "Part proving a point, part apology," he said, then gestured at the table. "You have to admit, dinner is a lot better than an 'I-told-you-so'," he added with a laugh.

As they stared at each, Steve saw for the first time the dark circles under Mike's eyes, and realized the physical toll the day must have taken. The older man had been his usual energetic self, and it had been easy to forget he was still recovering from a potentially life-threatening injury.

"Look, we can talk more about this later. I think you've done enough for the day."

"But there's still dessert…" Mike began to protest.

Steve held up a hand. "Don't tell me, apple pie with vanilla ice cream?"

"What else?"

"We can have it tomorrow, or even later tonight. But right now I think you need to go lie down." The latter was said in all seriousness; Steve meant business.

"What about the dishes –?"

Steve cocked his head. "Ah, I think I hear the busboy arriving," he said quickly, continuing the game Mike had begun with his arrival home that evening. "He'll take care of that, and I know the dishwasher is coming a little later."

Mike looked at his young partner with affection. He nodded slowly. "I am a little tired. Are you sure…?" He gestured at the table.

"Yes. Get upstairs. I'll be up in awhile; I'm gonna give the busboy a hand."

"Okay." Mike couldn't suppress a small wince as he got up; it was the first one Steve had noticed. As Steve started to gather the dishes, he kept an eye on Mike as the older man made his way slowly up the stairs.

# # # # #

An hour later, the dirty dishes stacked by the sink, the table and chairs now back in the kitchen and the living room restored, Steve made his way upstairs. He had been impressed by the amount of work that had gone into making the evening so special; and he was a little worried that Mike had overdone it.

He stopped abruptly at the top of the stairs. Mike was lying flat on his back, still fully dressed, spread-eagled diagonally across the bed. Before Steve could move, he heard a cartoonish groan and he chuckled. Crossing to the doorway, he poked his head in the room. "Are you okay?"

Without moving, his voice laced with exhaustion, partly real, partly for affect, Mike answered, "This is as far as I got."

"I see that."

Ever so slowly, Mike began to sit up. "I'll get into bed –"

"Don't move," Steve ordered as he came into the room. Mike dropped back onto the bed. "Are you comfortable?"

"Uhm, oddly enough…yeah, I am…"

"Well then, why don't you just go to sleep right there?"

"In my clothes?"

Steve chuckled as he slipped Mike's shoes off, then knelt on the bed beside him to undo his belt and slide it out from under him. "Why not? I'm sure you've done it once or twice before, right?"

"Not for a long time…."

"Well, return to your youth," Steve answered with a grin as he slid off the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. He returned immediately with the bag of medical supplies and knelt once more on the bed. "I have to change the bandage again."

Mike reached for the buttons on his shirt but Steve beat him to it. "Just lie there, I'll do it." He did have to change the bandage, but he was also worried that all the physical activity Mike had done during day may have put a strain on the sutures, and possibly ruptured one.

"Deal," agreed Mike, dropping his arms to the bed again.

As Steve undid the shirt, he asked, "So, how did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Today. Everything."

His eyes still closed, Mike grinned. "Friends in odd places. Well, a friend. One of my old buddies drives a cab. I called him first thing this morning and rented his services for a couple of hours. He drove me to my place, then a grocery store, a butcher, a liquor store…you know, the usual. He even carried the bags for me."

By now Steve had Mike's shirt open and eased the bandage off. He was relieved to see that everything looked fine. When he got the new gauze with the antibiotic ready, he picked up Mike's left hand and placed it on his stomach to hold the gauze in place again while he cut the tape.

"The rest I did myself," Mike sounded pleased with himself, even through a yawn. "It's amazing what you can learn from cookbooks." He sounded surprised. "Do you know I've never cooked asparagus before?"

"Well, it turned out perfectly," Steve agreed as he did Mike's shirt up and repacked the plastic bag. "I'll be right back." He slid off the bed and disappeared once more into the bathroom, coming back with a glass of water and a pill. "You have to take your antibiotic."

He put the glass on the nightstand and helped Mike into a half-sitting position, then handed him the glass. Pill down, Mike laid back down and closed his eyes. Steve grabbed a pillow from the top of the bed, lifted Mike's head and slid it under.

As Steve began to get off the bed once again, Mike took his arm. He opened his eyes, raised his head slightly and stared at his young partner, his expression serious. Steve waited, frowning. Finally Mike asked, "Are we good?"

Steve stared at him for several seconds, then smiled warmly and nodded. "Yeah, we're good." He paused. "But only if you promise me you won't leave the house tomorrow," he admonished with a wagging finger.

"Why would I?" Mike said with smile, releasing Steve's arm. "We have all those wonderful leftovers downstairs."

Steve chuckled. "Yes, we do. And I'll do you one better – for the next month or so, I promise to park the car so your door is on the downhill side."

Mike laughed and then moaned. "Oh, don't make me laugh…I'm too tired and it hurts," he complained with a chuckle, letting his head fall back onto the pillow. "I never realized cooking could be so exhausting."

"That's 'cause you don't do it often enough. But I appreciate what you did, I really do. Oh," he cocked his head, "I think I hear the dishwasher arriving. I better get down there." He reached out and laid a hand on Mike's forehead. Mike closed his eyes. "You sure you're okay here?"

There was no response; Mike was already asleep. Steve let his hand linger.

He hadn't told Mike everything that Bill had told him. He hadn't said that when they lifted Mike to put him on the stretcher, the pain was so intense that he had cried out. 'He cried out for you,' Bill had told him, 'he was in such agony…and it was you he wanted with him…'

Steve eased himself off the bed, crossed to the linen closet in the hallway and returned with a blanket. Gently, trying his best not to disturb the sleeping man, he laid the blanket over his friend. He stood there for a moment, then leaned down and lightly kissed Mike's forehead.

He walked to the door, turning back briefly as he turned the light off. He closed the door quietly and headed down the stairs. He put the needle back on the Miles Davis album and turned the volume down a bit, then went into the kitchen and started to run the water to do the dishes.

HeHeHe


End file.
